


there's old magic in violins (that's an ancient song they sing)

by tambuli



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, McDonald's, McDonald's waitstaff Caleb, Meet-Cute, Violinist Jester, but like. that's where it happened, this fic does not promote capitalism, this is literally just self-indulgent fluff, this is probably not in character but i'm STILL GONNA YEET IT INTO THE VOID
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 09:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18962689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tambuli/pseuds/tambuli
Summary: Jester Lavorre is being sad at a McDonald's because her mom missed her last high school recital.Caleb Widogast just wants to help the girl crying into her Big Mac.Frumpkin mostly just wants Jester's chicken nuggets.





	there's old magic in violins (that's an ancient song they sing)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bonesout](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bonesout/gifts).



> Let me preface this by saying I know approximately zero things about violins, musicians, and what one might conceivably play on the violin. Also being a rich teenager in the US of A. So everything was googled, except for the Rondo thing, which was pulled from a book called Toes. It's about a cat with seven toes named Toes.
> 
> Also, this fic is both a gift for Bones and an apology for In This Sea Of Lovers Without Ships.
> 
> Lastly, the title is from something smoke sent to the WJ discord.

Jester is _not_ going to cry. She _isn’t_.

She speed walks past the clumps of families surrounding her fellow seniors, who are laughing and crying and clutching bouquets to their chests. It’s not, like, _super_ easy to do it, because she’s wearing the really pretty, sky-high heels that Mama let her borrow, but. She can do it. She’s doing it.

 _Mama let me borrow the heels_ , she reminds herself. _These are her really pretty, awesome heels and she loves them, but she let me borrow them because she **loves** me more._

Her heels clack-clack-clack on the floor, and she’s aware of how the conversations around her trail off into silence as she walks past, violin case in her hands. She’s aware, too, of the eyes that scan her top to bottom: the floor-length red Noe Bernacelli dress, the Gruszow-Baumblatt violin, the red Dior heels.

She knows that as soon as she disappears past the auditorium doors the whispers will start.

_That’s Jester Lavorre, that’s Marion Lavorre’s daughter. She’s first violin._

_Why isn’t Marion Lavorre here then?_

_Maybe she’s here and she’s in disguise! I mean, what if she wants to hide from the paparazzi?_

Oh, if only.

The clack-clack-clacking sound of her heels changes as she steps out onto the parking lot and heads to her car. This, too, is more evidence that Mama loves Jester: on her sixteenth birthday, Jester had woken up to Mama at the breakfast table, pancakes steaming on her plate and a covered platter nearby.

“Eat your pancakes!” Mama had said. “Then uncover the platter!”

“Is it a bear claw?” Jester had asked. “Is it, ooh, is it cake?”

“Better!”

So Jester had wolfed down her pancakes, then pulled the cover off the platter. There in the middle was a set of car keys.

“Let’s go, let’s go!” Mama had said, laughing in excitement, and ushered her out the door. Sitting there on the driveway was a beautiful ruby-red car.

And that was all Jester really understood about her car, that first moment. Actually, it’s _still_ all she knows about her car. Mama had chattered on and on about it being a BMW x4 M40i, could go from zero to sixty in like four and a half seconds, 355 horsepower—none of which Jester understood. She just nodded and smiled and acted as excited and grateful as she could.

Her ear caught on the words “52 thousand dollars” and she doubled the wattage of her smile, and thanked her mother even more profusely.

 _So you see_ , she told herself, _Mama loves you. Mama loves you. Mama just couldn’t make it to your super-duper-very-last-high-school-recital-ever because she was busy with work_.

Busy with work, like Mama has been all her life.

Jester is _not_ going to cry.

“You know what will make you feel better, Jester?” she asks herself out loud, as she puts her key into the ignition. “McDonald’s. McDonald’s will make you feel better.”

As she drives, she imagines what she’ll order: maybe a McChicken with tomato, or a McFlurry with fries, or, or, or maybe a double hamburger! Or even a Big Mac. The possibilities for comfort food are endless.

Thank the gods there’s a McDonald’s nearby, and as she pulls in, there are free parking spaces, too. But as she opens the door of her car and steps out, she realizes she’s still in her gown and in full makeup. People are going to stare.

Jester almost gets back in her car and goes through the drive-through instead. But then she sees that through the glass walls, people have already seen her and are nudging at their tablemates.

 _Look at that girl!_ she imagines them saying. _What is she wearing? What is she doing?_

Well, fuck that.

She closes her door, presses the little fob (tut-tut!), and strides into the McDonald’s.

“Higoodevening, welcome to McDonald’s, what can I get you?” the cashier at the counter drones.

“Uhh, a. Uhh. Hmm. What about a.” Jester is blanking. “Uhhh a Big Mac and chicken nuggets and apple pie and an Oreo McFlurry!”

“Drink?”

“Oh, uh. Iced lemonade.” Her ex-boyfriend had been such a lemonade thief, always stealing her drink. Sometimes she misses having a boyfriend, but other times, like this one, she’s glad she’s the only one getting lemonade.

The cashier, whose nametag reads NOTT, taps her order in, and gives her the total. Jester reaches into her clutch and swipes her credit card (another thing she reminds herself to be grateful to Mama for). Her order slides across the counter in a tray.

Nott eyes her getup, and the towering heels Jester is wearing. “ASSIST PLEASE!” she calls out.

“Oh, you really don’t have to—” Jester begins, but then a waiter with red hair sticking out from under his cap is there, and he’s taking her tray and saying, “Where would you like to sit, ma’am?”

Jester looks around, and there’s a free seat near the very back and at the corner. “Over there.” She starts walking.

“Jester!!!!!”

She turns on instinct, and there’s Toya, a freshman girl who’s beginning to make her name in choir. She’s dressed in a long gown as well, but much more understated than Jester’s brilliantly red ensemble. She’s beaming widely and waving.

“Hey, Toya,” she says. “What’s up?”

“You look so beautiful,” Toya says, eyes wide. “I didn’t get the chance to tell you earlier because everyone was like, crowding the doors and stuff and I couldn’t see you. But you look so nice tonight!”

Jester smiles at her—she likes Toya, she’s shy and sweet but is easily excited. “Thank you! I’m looking forward to hearing you solo, you have such a lovely soprano.”

“Oh, I—” Toya stammers. “You—you really think I can solo?”

“Of course!” Jester and someone else say at the same time.

The person who agreed with Jester comes up behind Toya, carrying paper bags that probably hold their order. He’s a lanky man, with ashy brown hair and an overlarge tuxedo jacket.

“This is my foster father, Gustav Fletching,” Toya introduces, smiling. “Gustav, this is Jester, she’s first violin at school and she’s _amazing_.”

“Thank you,” Jester says, smiling the smile her mother taught her when receiving compliments. _Don’t deflect it, accept it_ , Mama had said.  “Toya is like, really talented. One of the best singers I’ve ever heard, and you know, I’m a senior. I’ve heard a _lot_.”

Mr. Fletching laughs heartily. “I’m glad to hear it! This is Toya’s first high school recital, you know. We all came to see her, and her brothers and sisters were so proud of her.”

“Gust _aaaaav_ ,” Toya chides, but she’s smiling. Jester stiffens.

“Your entire family came to watch you perform?” she asks.

“Of course!” Mr. Fletching says. “We’ve done it ever since Toya started singing. It’s such a treat to be able to see her shine. We’ve never missed one!”

Jester’s smile feels brittle. “That’s wonderful,” she says, then gestures awkwardly to the waiter, who is still standing there, holding her tray. “I have to—it was good to see you, Toya, and to meet you, Mr.  Fletching. Congratulations again.”

“Bye, Jester!” Toya chirps, and she and her father walk out the door.

Jester is dimly aware of walking to her chosen table, and the waiter following behind her, balancing her tray. She’s too focused on not crying—she is not going to cry, she is not going to cry, Jester Lavorre is a strong independent woman and—oh no, there’s the first tear. Okay, she’ll just cry like one tear. Oh no, now there are two. Three. Four. Five. She falls onto the seat and the waiter sets the tray in front of her. Her mouth moves on autopilot, “Thank you.” The waiter says something, probably _You’re welcome_ , but she doesn’t notice because at that point tears number six seven eight go plop plop plop on the table.

Jester hasn’t even begun bargaining with herself, fifteen tears or less, before she just starts full-on sobbing.

She buries her head in her arms and tries her level best to muffle herself, but Jester has never been an artful, silent crier, has never mastered the soulful gaze into middle distance while tears slide silently down her cheeks. Mama can do that, Mama has acted that in so many movies. But Jester is just an ugly crier and she’s probably smearing her makeup everywhere and oh god, her _eyeliner,_ and her hair is beginning to fall out of her chignon and _Mama didn’t come to her last recital while Toya’s entire family came to hers_ and it’s just so much, so much, so much.

“Uh. Miss?” Someone taps her on the shoulder.

Jester hiccups, and keeps her head stubbornly buried in her arms.

“Okay uh. I’m just going to. I brought you some tissues,” the voice continues awkwardly. It’s faintly accented with what she _thinks_ is German. “And a brown paper bag, in case. In case you need it to. To breathe.”

At that, Jester does open her eyes and peek out past the gap in her arms. It’s the waiter from before, the one with red hair peeking out from his cap. He’s setting down a veritable stack of tissues on her table, as well as the paper bag he had promises.

She lifts her head up. “T-thank you,” she rasps out. Inwardly, she cringes. That was _such_ a congested voice.

The guy looks at her, and oh, he’s _pretty._ He has a little red five o’clock shadow, and his eyes are very _very_ blue, and the way he looks at her, all sympathy and awkwardness, makes her heart twinge.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

Shamefully, she feels tears well up in her eyes again. She opens her mouth to say _I’m fine_ , but she isn’t really, she’s not fine, this isn’t _fine at all_ —

“No,” she chokes out, and then she’s off and crying again.

The guy looks around, but the McDonald’s is mostly deserted. He sits down beside her, careful to leave space between them, and mutely offers her a tissue. She takes it, dabs at her eyes (god, the eyeliner streaks—this is a nightmare), then blows her nose.

It makes a honking noise, because of course it does. She breathes in (it’s a little difficult) and smiles wanly up at the guy.

His name tag reads CALEB.

“Do you. Do you want to talk about it?” Caleb says awkwardly.

She opens her mouth to say something like, _Oh no, I’m fine, it’s fine, I don’t want to inconvenience you or anything—_ but what actually comes out is, “Do you have time?”

Caleb glances at the digital clock near the counter. It reads 9:55 PM.

“I will in five minutes,” he says. Jester feels the corner of her lips quirk up. “You should—” he gestures to her untouched food. “You should. Eat that. And I’ll get back to you in five minutes?”

Jester nods. “Thank you, Caleb.”

There’s a long pause, and then Caleb reaches out. His hand hovers over her own for a moment, then very carefully pats it.

“Whatever it is, I’m sure it’ll turn out all right,” he says, and then he’s gone.

She gets a tissue and starts blotting at her face more vigorously. Streaks of foundation come away, and she’s miserably certain her eyeliner has smeared on her undereyes, making her look like a raccoon. But it does make her feel a little better.

Biting into her Big Mac feels even better. It’s good. It’s not very warm anymore, but the beef on her tongue is comforting, and chewing and swallowing gives her something to focus on other than her hysteria.

Just as the clock ticks over to 10:01, Caleb comes over to her. He’s taken his cap off, and put a big, kind of shabby brown coat on. It turns out his red hair is twisted up in a messy bun. Jester kind of wants to touch it.

“I’m still in, I’m still in uniform,” Caleb says, gesturing towards his outfit. “But if you want, I can.” He takes a deep breath. “Do you want to see a cat?”

“You have a _cat_?” Jester almost squeals.

“Nein, I mean. He’s not _my_ cat. But he comes around every so often,” Caleb says. “In the back. Do you. Do you want to see the cat? And maybe you can tell me why you were crying.”

Jester nods. Her answering smile, though weak, feels _real._

“Let me just get these,” she points at her uneaten food, “to go, and we can, we can go.”

They leave the McDonald’s through the front door, and Jester is sure they make an odd sight: a girl in a long gown with streaky makeup and brown hair falling out of a chignon, carrying a to-go bag; a kinda medium-tall kind of slouchy guy in a McDonald’s waiter uniform under a big brown coat. Her heels make click-click-clicking noises on the pavement and she winces. Her feet really are beginning to ache.

“This way,” Caleb says, and nods towards the medium-lit back of the McDonald’s, where several dumpsters are. There, sitting in a pool of light, is a kind of skinny orange cat.

“Oh!” Jester breathes.

“Frumpkin,” Caleb calls, and the cat cocks his head. “Hello. Good evening.”

 _Mrroooow._ The cat flicks its tail and regards the two of them, then deigns to stand up and wind about Caleb’s ankles. _Mrrrroooow._

“Oh!” Jester repeats. She crouches down, heedless of her heels, and stretches out a hand to pet Frumpkin. Frumpkin looks at the outstretched hand for a moment, then butts his head against her. Jester gasps in delight.

“I’ve never had a pet before,” she informs Caleb breathlessly. “You’re _so lucky_ to have Frumpkin!”

“Ah, he’s not really mine,” Caleb deflects, but he’s smiling as Jester rubs Frumpkin’s ears. “If anything he is the store’s.”

“Do you think he’d like some chicken nuggets?” Jester asks, already digging into her paper bag. “Here Frumpkin, do you want a nuggie?” She holds one out to the cat.

Frumpkin stretches his neck out and delicately takes the nugget into his mouth. Jester gasps. “He likes it!”

“He does,” Caleb says. “Do you want to sit down somewhere?”

Jester looks around, and sees nothing but parking lot. When she looks back at Caleb, he’s shrugged off his coat. “I can put this down anywhere so your dress doesn’t get dirty.”

“But then won’t your coat get dirty too?”

“It’s already kind of a mess,” Caleb points out.

They find a nice spot, and Frumpkin follows them, alternating winding around Jester’s ankles and Caleb’s. When they sit down, Frumpkin immediately comes over and claims a spot on Caleb’s lap. Jester offers him another nugget.

“So…?” Caleb prompts. Jester bites her lip.

She isn’t hysterical anymore, and her tears are dried up. She doesn’t _have_ to tell Caleb anything. She can just say she’s fine, or make up a story about a boyfriend or something, she has some stories about her ex anyway. Like, _he always stole my lemonade_ or _he was **weirdly** into this older guy who was super into snakes. _

But she doesn’t. When she opens her mouth, what comes out is, “My mom missed my last high school recital, and I know she loves me but I wish she wouldn’t work so much.”

Caleb shifts so he’s facing her, and in this silent gesture she knows he’s listening.

“I mean. I know it doesn’t look it right now but when I was younger we were like. Poor. Really _fucking_ poor. And my mom was this single mom aspiring actress, and I know it wasn’t easy for her, but she tried really hard and she wanted to give me _everything_ , you know? And I think she felt really guilty that I didn’t have all the stuff the other kids got, so when her career took off she just. Like. Overcompensated.” Jester sucks in a breath. She’s _never_ said anything like this to _anyone_ at all.

But Caleb is a stranger. A kind stranger who gave her tissues and let her pet his cat and let her sit on his coat so her dress wouldn’t get dirty. Even though she couldn’t give a _fuck_ about the _fucking_ dress.

“And I have so much _stuff_ I don’t even care about, and I know that sounds like, really fucking privileged and all but. I have so much _stuff_ that I don’t even want, and when she comes home tonight or tomorrow or next week she’ll have another gift for me as a _sorry I missed your last ever high school recital_ but I don’t want another gift or another dress or any of the other _fucking_ shit she’s going to give me, I just wanted her to be here. I just wanted her to be in the audience.

“Okay, maybe I wanted something else, after all. I wanted her to be there and I wanted her to come up to me after my performance and I wanted her to give me, like, a really big and beautiful bouquet like you give to performers when they do really well, because, I’m not bragging, I swear, but I know I did really well on my performance tonight!

“But she wasn’t there. She’s never there. And I’m just—I’m just—”

She’s full on crying again, and the stack of tissues was abandoned on the table in the McDonald’s. Silently, Caleb pulls a handkerchief from the pocket of his jeans. Jester didn’t even know people still carried handkerchiefs around.

She wipes her eyes and looks at Caleb. “I’m sorry. That sounded really self-centered of me. It’s. I’m sorry. I’m fine. It’s all good. Haha.” She tries a smile. “Do you want some apple pie? I think I still have some apple pie.”

“Will you play?”

“I—I’m sorry?”

“Will you play the piece you played,” Caleb repeated. “I’d like to hear it.”

“Oh,” Jester says, then hesitates. “My violin’s in the car, I’ll just. I’ll just go get it.” Caleb nods.

Jester click-click-clicks towards her car, unlocking it with a tut-tut of her fob. Frumpkin goes with her, walking at her side like a regal guard. She pulls out her violin case and hefts it.

When she glances over at Caleb, his back is turned towards her, but she can sort of see his hands moving really quickly.

She click-click-clicks back.

“Here,” she says, a little unnecessarily. Caleb looks up at her with a little, encouraging smile. “Uh. This piece is called.” She pauses, and puts on her performance persona. Summons up all her charm and everything her mother and tutors ever taught her about posture, and said, “This is the third movement of the Beethoven Violin Concerto: the Rondo.”

She puts her violin in position, and begins to play.

Immediately she falls into what she privately calls the violinist’s high, or maybe the musician’s high; it’s kind of like what people call the runner’s high, but musical. From the very first note her entire heart leaps, and her eyes close without her telling them to—her fingers dance across the strings—all the world falls away and her heart thuds inside her ribcage—

\--the violin solo soars, and her eyes fly open—Caleb is there, blue eyes rapt and looking only at _her_ —this is where the orchestra should come in, if she had an orchestra right now—instead there is only her, only here and this man and a cat—her violin sings so loudly it must echo across the parking lot, it must reach across the street, the city, the entire world—there is nothing but Caleb and Frumpkin and the music and her—

She drags the bow across the string one final time, and the notes die away.

She puts the violin down. She’s vaguely aware she’s heaving.

Slowly, carefully, deliberately, Caleb dislodges Frumpkin from his lap, stands up, and then begins to applaud.

“Brava,” Caleb says, and Frumpkin meows. “Brava, uh…” He flushes. “I don’t. I don’t actually know your name.”

“Oh!” Jester flushes too. “It’s. It’s Jester. My name’s Jester. It’s. It’s nice to meet you, Caleb.”

“Chyester,” Caleb pronounces, then flushes even darker. “Sorry. _Jester._ ”

“No, don’t, it’s fine, I—I liked it,” Jester says, and she did. She does. _Chyester_ , a thickening of the accent on the first syllable. She likes it.

“Brava,” Caleb says again, and then turns around and picks something up from behind him. Sitting as he did, Jester hadn’t seen it when she started performing.

It’s a single paper rose, made out of a piece of newsprint.

It shouldn’t mean anything. It’s a stranger in a McDonald’s waiter’s uniform, a single pair of hands clapping together, a single rose made out of newsprint, of all things. It shouldn’t mean anything.

It means _everything._

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have the stamina to write the rest of this, but like. Jester visits the McDonald's a lot after that, and then Nott tells Caleb to ask for her number, and of course Jester agrees. They start texting like, all the time, and one day Caleb says, "i have to shower i smell like burger brb"
> 
> [Jester's dress](https://66.media.tumblr.com/81a188817362449ae42d7287e2709508/tumblr_p0wsz7Gh6d1vbwiq9o5_1280.jpg) is the rightmost one
> 
> [This is the piece](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1dbOIkYtafw) Jester played, or like. I hope. Again I know zero things about music
> 
> [This is how Caleb made the paper rose.](https://m.wikihow.com/Fold-a-Paper-Rose) He did all those steps in like, the fifty-five seconds it took Jester to walk to her car and back. He's amazing.


End file.
